like friction, like chills
by ok no
Summary: heat to melt the ice that never froze, was that what he was now? /litbel, for chimneyswept/


**a/n**: this is a b-day gift for _chimneyswept_. congratulations, you're as old as me for the next month (or so). :D

but really, i love you dude, & i hope this is up to your litbel standards. ;w; happy birthday, brobee.

(i also hope i didn't fail at tenses too much... i was really trying to work on that. D: but idek if it's any better.)

* * *

><p>In his head, it was silent. The screams, the sobs, the slamming doors, he couldn't hear any of it. It was all drowned out by the pulse in his head, louder than any siren, than any gunshot, and no one else could hear it. The sound rang out, in, over and over, his vision shook with every beat.<p>

He stared at it, the sight, an interesting thing in that nothing like it had ever happened before. It was unnatural, an anomaly in his daily life, completely abnormal.

Normally, she was all locked doors and closed windows. Normally, she'd never let anyone see her like this. But he could see, he could see _everything._

Was this her way of opening up to him? Was it pure chance? Whatever it was, he stared and stared and stared until he must have burned holes in the door frame, set fire to this work of art, work of blood and sweat. What a shame that would have been, to destroy such a sad – beautiful – thing as this.

Because the door to her room was open, and he could see her. Stunning, scintillating, a dead flower in a snow-soaked garden, drunk on the poisoned winter sun. Elegant and graceful but _wrong_, a broken grandfather clock. He could describe her, her work, in so many ways it wasn't funny.

Or maybe it was, could it all just be a joke?

She had cut the walls, everything wooden, leaving deep gashes. Her whole room was covered in them, from the highest point on the angled ceiling, to the lowest floorboards of ancient wood. Cuts, nicks, scrapes, _marks_ made with all kinds of knives and utensils. Pens as well, he thought. These marks, holes, were like her words, after all. He read them all, just standing, staring, _watching_ her carve more and more into the walls until her fingers bled from pressing down so hard on the blade. No wonder she wore gloves.

He absorbed her thoughts, etched into every splinter of her crumbling bedroom walls, her cracking floor just threatening to give way, the scars along her bedposts, notches like tally marks. But what could she (they) be counting?

A sound broke his silence, a single sob, a whimper, it was almost inaudible. It jarred him from his everlasting moment, yanking him out of that bleeding second just between seconds, between milliseconds. The sound stopped his pulse, his heart, everything. It just _stopped._

She was crying, he realized.

Suddenly, she screamed, cried out, stabbing the wall repeatedly with the thick knife in her hand, before throwing the knife away with impossible speed, and propelling it out her door. It slowed down as it got closer to him, crawling past him like a snail heading uphill, grazing his cheek and loping of a chunk of hair in the same fluid movement. All before lodging itself in the wall several meters behind, shaking for a moment, before remaining still.

Strands of brown tumbled off his shoulder and onto the old wood floor, some sticking to his shirt and the hot red liquid pouring out of the new wound on his cheek, which burned and overflowed like a geyser. Blood slid down his neck and under his shirt, almost pooling at his collar. It soaked the fabric, dying dingy white red and sticking now-icy threads to his skin.

He looked back up at her, she was sitting in the same old wood chair she'd been standing on moments ago. Sobbing, head in her hands, in more pain than even she could fully grasp. Without thought, he began towards her on shaking legs, legs made of wicker, woven together and clawed at by some beast, now weakened, ready to snap at any moment. He crept down the hall, closer and closer to her shivering form, looking frail enough that she could shatter if he merely _breathed_. He'd never seen her like this, he didn't want to. Her weakness, her fear, pain, whatever it was, he had no words for it. Nothing.

Was that it? Was he looking at nothing? Emptiness? Was that what she felt? He'd never know, but did he really want to?

The floorboards, normally loud and creaking at the slightest movement, stayed silent. Or maybe it was just the silence in his head, having been restored and renewed. His cut burned with ice, so hot it was cold, but so cold it was hot. It still dripped, slowly, his entire right cheek coated in a layer of wet crimson and drying dull-brown. The chopped ends of his hair matted with the red substance, sticking to one another like glue.

Standing ever so close, he watched her shake, quivering, shivering. She looked so cold, _too_ cold, if he didn't do something soon she'd freeze. Like a solid block of ice, she'd turn to stone. He couldn't let her become a statue like this, not with such a sad look, never. It would be a waste.

Without a moment's consideration, he wrapped his arms around her, earning an alarmed jolt and a knife digging into his throat. She asked him something, but he didn't hear, he couldn't speak. The world was a silent movie, made up of sepia-tones and slow-played records in the back of a theater. He rested his head on hers and stared, through the film grain, at the mess of gashes on the wall, the wooden desk, the ceiling and chair, all messy with cuts and bruises and the knife was digging deeper into his throat. He holds her tighter, trying to melt the ice crystals he feels forming around her heart, ready to pierce it, creeping up her spine and latching onto him, even, straight through her skin. It scares him, but he doesn't let go. He couldn't risk letting her go.

She moves the knife from his throat with a kind of resignation that's completely unlike her and merely gets up, shattering his embrace, and climbs into the bed nearby, turning out the light and asking him to shut the door on his way out. He nods solemnly, leaving and closing the door behind him. For a moment, he stops, turning around to look at her door. It's bare and white and completely spotless, clean, just like what lays beyond. He reaches a hand up to his bleeding cheek to find no blood, no cut, no chopped and matted hair, and no knife lodged in the wall behind him. He leaves, it's his turn to prepare dinner.

Nothing in this house ever changes.

Not even him.


End file.
